Dr. Krumbunculus walked down the musty streets of the southern EastWest district of middle-poor Caldonia. His legs were buckling with soreness that he could’ve easily magicked away had he not been so young, so he sat on the side of the road and watched the suns slowly creep down the whoreizon. At least he was indeed so young that in a short bit of time they’d heal.

Krumbunculus soon found he felt like summoning up a drink, so he gave it a go and wiggled his right pointer finger.

“Alcohol,” whispered a timid disembodied voice as a small half-glass of red wine appeared in Krumbunculus’ uncalloused hand.

“Cock hamn it,” he sighed, downing the glass in one gulp, “This is going to take some doing.”

And thus, he pointed so many times his finger was indeed quite sore by the time he’d summoned up and gulped down twenty or so half glasses. Feeling well imbibed, Krumbunculus found himself staring in wonder at the sky, stars poking their dotted heads out of thicc, dark purple clouds.

“Beautiful,” he sighed, summoning up yet another half-glass, “Simply beautiful.”

“Hey, youse there! Young guy!”

The hairs on Dr. Krumbunculus’ back, which were regrettably not plentiful or gray, stood on end as a buff man in a white tank top lumbered up to him and gripped him shoulder.

“Hey, whadda youse think youse’re doin’ sittin’ here gettin’ wasted, kid? This is private property, youse know!”

“I’m—guh—” Dr. Krumbunculus rasped, spraying wine spittle over the man’s face, “I’m not wasted.”

“And I’m not a buff man in a white tank top, eh?” snickered the buff man in a white tank top, “Now get outta here or I’ll whup youser ass!”

“W-wait,” Dr. Krumbunculus sputtered, summoning up another half-glass, “Lemme just have a little more wine first, and the—”

“I said get outta heres, ya hamned sissy!” the man spat, pulling out a dirty rag from his back pants pocket and snapping it over Krumbunculus’ back. Which, coincidentally, was right where one of his many whipping welts courtesy of Dorma was hiding.

“OWWWW!” he screamed, leaping to his feet and scurrying off like a scorned crab.

“Wowies,” the man lit a cigarette, “What a clucking vussy, that guy.”

***

As Dr. Krumbunculus dashed down the darkening streets, he felt adrenaline pour through his endocrine system once again. He was starting to get used to it. He was even, cock forbid, starting to enjoy feeling young.

“Shit!” Dr. Krumbunculus stopped by the side of a building and slapped himself in the face, trying his best to regain his senses. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t catch a wretched case of stockings-home syndrome vis a vis this youth-granting curse of his.

Stockings-home syndrome was, of course, a bit of a colloquialism of Caldonia, referring to the psychiatric condition whereupon someone began to like something that they originally hated. Specifically, the syndrome referred to when a situation under duress or otherwise out of the victim’s control happened to eventually create feelings of warmth and desire instead of coldness. The most popular cultural example was also the cause for the nickname itself, the story of ‘Bella and the Stockings-Home.’

The story went as thus: Bella was a lower-poor lady who twerked tirelessly sweeping the grounds of her father’s wood whittling store. A common and relatable lower-poor plight, for sure. One day, she got hired to castle sit for someone in upper-poor Caldonia. That someone was, as it turned out, what was commonly referrred to as a beautiful prince, who apparently also kept popping in the whole time, oftentimes scantily clad in but a loincloth or something of similar ilk.

However, Bella was only attracted to monsters. Like, spine-chilling, gruesome horror monsters. Her parents said it was because she’d read too much in her younger days. So there she was with this beautiful prince, castle sitting for him, he kept coming on to her and she kept being completely disinterested. Until, one day, something clicked. That something, of course, was when she realized that the prince was emotionally manipulative and abusive, which Bella soon realized made him more truly monstrous than any outside appearances ever could have.

She brandished the prince with kisses on realizing this, and then he transformed into a huge, disgusting monster. His castle also transformed into a small cottage where Bella could sit and knit stockings out of humans flesh, for she was just a little bit of a lunatic. Hence the story’s title, ‘Bella and the Stockings-Home,’ and the phrase stockings-home syndrome.

Dr. Krumbunculus continued his running, down alleyways and through the backends of brothels, slowed only briefly by the tantalizing smell of countless drugged up harlots. Eventually, he happened upon a hostile, and breathed a sigh of relief.

Hostiles were, despite their generally standoffish name and nature, easy lodgings for poor young folk to pop in for the night, provided they didn’t appear to be homeless or on anything harder than fantasy-smack.

Krumbunculus pushed open the door and was greeted by a grimace.

“Why the cluck are you here and who the cluck do you think you are?” spat the attendant with vitrol.

“Who the cluck are you to ask?!” Krumbunculus spat back.

Satisfied that the apparently young man was hip, the attendant nodded slowly and handed him a room key.

“Down the hallway. Fifth door on the left. You clucking asshole.”

Krumbunculus snatched the key in a huff and stormed off, “Thanks for nothing, cluckface.”

Down the hallway he trudged, bursting into the fifth door on the left and scowling vehemetly.

“Room for one more?” Dr. Krumbunculus growled.

“Un-clucking-fortunately, yes,” responded a grisly looking young man and two young women, all of whom were sharing the same cot. They gestured to a small wooden bench in the corner.

“Thanks, assholes.”

Dr. Krumbunculs plopped himself on the bench and did his best to force himself to sleep. His best was, unfortunately enough, greatly misaffected by the incessant squeaks and moans emanating from the nearby cot.